Miles To Go Before I Sleep
by APat96
Summary: Annabeth tends the fire, wondering of what could have been. She thinks to her child, her husband, and vows to remain strong. Set to Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening."


The woods were heavily blanketed by snow; the only light for miles shining delicately through the thick, frost covered panes of the small wooden house. A woman, no older than thirty years, tended the fire, the one that gave off the meek light.

However, the time had been cruel to her, and it showed. The skin hung under her eyes as if it had simply given up, and the eyes above, having once been a bright, illustrious color, had now faded to a dull, lifeless gray.

Her mourning clothes reflected the Victorian age of her grandparents, the high collars, the long dresses. She had chosen this lifestyle. She had chosen to leave society, move to the forest of her childhood, where she had spent summers. She had chosen to leave everything behind and start anew. And look at what it goten her. It bought her solidarity, save for her child. It bought her backbreaking labor all day long, and lengthy, bitter, lonely nights to spend tending the fire. Just look at what it gotten her.

Inside the cabin, where the woman sat, poking at the fire wordlessly with an iron fork, a cry arose, shaking the small cabin, and the woman, from thoughts of what could have been.

Sighing, the woman stood, hearing her knees crack, and, rubbing her aching back, she walked quietly down the short hallway, reaching the child's bedroom.

"Mama!" Came the child's cry again, her wide, terrified eyes searching for her mother's familiar face.

"Yes, my love, I'm right here." The woman's voice softened, and she perched on the edge of the child's bed, grasping her hand reassuringly.

"Mama, I had a bad dream!" The girl said, pulling herself closer to her mother.

"Well, my darling," the woman replied thoughtfully, pulling her blonde curls behind her ears, "Would you like me to read to you?"

"Yes, Mama." The small girls nodded into her mother's chest. The woman stroked her daughter's black waves, holding her tightly to her chest.

"Well—let's get you tucked in nice and tight—I think I have the perfect remedy." She said, smoothing the blankets around her daughter and tenderly rubbing the girl's shoulder.

"Ok, Mama."

"Alright—you ready?" The woman asked, and was given a wordless nod. "Alright, this is a poem, by one of Daddy's favorite poets, Robert Frost." She closed her eyes, remembering the last time she had heard him recite this. She took a deep breath.

"Whose woods these are I think I know." She began, her voice escalating with the excitement she had put on for the girl. "His house is in the village though;"

"He will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow." She softened her voice.

"My little horse must think it queer, to stop without a farmhouse near, between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year." She smoothed the blankets again, leaning in closer to her daughter.

"He gives his harness bells a shake, to ask if there is some mistake." She murmured. "The only other sound's the sweep, of easy wind and downy flake."

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep." She said, whispering now. "But I have promises to keep."

The girl's breathing was slow and steady now, a sign to her mother that she had casually slipped back into a dreamful slumber.

"And miles to go before I sleep," the woman whispered, kissing her daughter's cheek lightly "And miles to go before I sleep."

With a last, shaky breath, the woman stood, giving her daughter a loving glance. She left the room, returning to the living room, where the last embers of the fire now crackled orange and red.

Heaving a heavy sigh, the woman resumed her seat in the corner, the one by the fire, and reclaimed her iron fork for prodding the flames. She smoothed her black dress, keeping her head held high, and stared out the window at the immaculate snow.

Pushing back the tears, she inhaled, closing her eyes, and, for one, last, lingering moment, she thought that she could smell him. His scent: the smell of his cologne. But, in that very instance, it was gone, carried off in the air to some foreign place.

She thought of him, of his daughter, sleeping just down the hall. She thought, and thought, and thought. Indeed, the woods were lovely, dark and deep, and, yes, she had promises to keep.

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_ And miles to go before I sleep._


End file.
